


Would You Rather...

by theSapphireSky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, F/M, Jealous Sherlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Is Bad At Flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theSapphireSky/pseuds/theSapphireSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a new neighbor threatens to distract Molly from helping him, Sherlock decides to court Molly away from him. As he begins to recognize his true feelings for her, his entire scheme threatens to unravel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions of a Confused Nature

Molly Hooper huffed as she fumbled with her keys, struggling to fit the key in the lock. Her eyes were bloodshot and gritty, her legs numb from overuse, and she swore if she saw another piece of paperwork in the next five days she’d move to Timbuktu.

It wasn’t often that she admitted to hating her job. Rather, she enjoyed being a pathologist immensely. But she’d been called in three hours into her two-day weekend after a horrific double-decker accident sent numerous bodies to several hospitals throughout London, St. Bart’s included. Three days of identifying remains and getting less than five hours rest by kipping on the cot in Mike Stamford’s office were enough to give her a moment’s regret for choosing this line of work.

Finally, the key slid home and Molly stumbled blindly into her welcoming flat. A faint light shone in from the far side of the flat, the setting sun illuminating a path through the small apartment to her bedroom, her large, queen-sized bed acting like a siren’s call. Unfortunately, Molly thought, that’s a bit of a hike. In three steps, she collapsed onto her plushy couch, sinking into the cushions and half-asleep in seconds.

_Knock knock._

The sudden noise startled Molly awake. She swung her head up and around in surprise. A strange man stood in her open doorway and belatedly, Molly realized she’d never shut the door behind her.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya,’ the American accent was obvious and his quiet, yet confident voice broke through the lingering sleepiness in Molly’s mind. ‘Your door was open and I was passing by on the stairs, figured either you’d forgotten to close it or you’re a pretty friendly neighbor.’

Molly frowned. She knew most everyone around, at least by facial recognition. And she was sure she’d remember someone as dashing as the man in the doorway. Almost as tall as Sherlock, but with a more athletic build. His clothes were wrinkled from a day’s work, but near impeccable nonetheless. A day’s growth shadowed his square jaw and light brown hair brushed his forehead and the collar of his tan jacket. He hugged a shiny, black motorcycle helmet to his side.

 _Office worker from his slacks, but doesn’t hold a high position, otherwise he would never risk getting his clothes spoiled from a motorcycle ride through London. Good grief, I’m becoming like Sherlock. What would he say about a strange man in my flat? He probably wouldn’t care, unless it had to do with Moriarty._ At the remembrance of that name, Molly stiffened. It was possible this guy was employed by the Consulting Criminal.

‘Who are you?’ she growled, half from sleep, half from fear.

‘Justin Lane, architect. I moved in upstairs a couple days ago,’ he replied.

Molly closed her eyes and struggled to remember the conversation she’d had with her landlady, Mrs. Powell last week. The old woman had been trying to rent the upper flat from more than a month and a young American businessman had finally signed a lease. Apparently, said American had moved in while Molly was elbows-deep in the morgue.

Molly groaned and sat up. ‘Molly Hooper. Pathologist and occasional airhead.’  She winced in self-depreciation.

‘Ah, I don’t believe that,’ he chuckled. Molly braced herself for the morgue jokes as he continued, ‘You don’t seem like the ditzy type. Looks more like you’ve gotten home from a long day and just collapsed. I have those kind of days.’ Molly blinked in surprise before a smile broke through her tired face.

She giggled and nodded, ‘Something like that. Actually an impromptu 3-day shift. I had about five hours of sleep since Monday.’

Justin grimaced in sympathy. ‘In that case, I shall tread upon your good graces another day.’ He gave an exaggerated bow and reached to close the door. ‘It was nice to meet you. Just do me a favor and lock up behind me.’ With that he winked and shut the door. Molly blushed and felt something flutter in her stomach.

After she had slid the deadbolt and chain in place, she made her way to her bedroom, thoughts of her mysterious new neighbor filling her mind in the few minutes before sleep claimed her for the next 12 hours.

* * *

 

‘Sherlock!’

Rolling his eyes, the petulant Consulting Detective shuffled into the kitchen from his bedroom, white sheet slung around his body like a full-length toga. ­‘Yes, John?’

Doctor John Watson was many things, but a man with a weak stomach was not one of them. However, five years of living with Sherlock Holmes and today was the breaking point. The fridge was a place of untold horror and the occasional delight, depending on if Mrs. Hudson had paid them a visit recently.

‘Wh-what is that?’ The green-gilled doctor pointed to a questionable container that occupied the entire top shelf of the fridge.

Sherlock huffed and strode past his former flatmate. ‘Considering you are heading on a date with your wife in an hour, I’m sure you would rather be ignorant of Molly’s latest donation to my experiment.’ He grabbed his laptop and settled himself in his chair.

John swallowed the urge to gag and slammed the door closed on Sherlock’s disgusting collection. ‘I need to have a few words with Molly Hooper,’ he muttered angrily.

‘You will do no such thing,’ Sherlock called from behind his laptop screen. John raised an eyebrow at the detective.

‘Sherlock, there are certain things that are meant to stay inside the human body, not in your fridge for days on end.’

John moved to sit in his old chair, that Sherlock had moved back during the Mary debacle, and took a breath.

Sherlock slammed the top closed on his laptop and growled, ‘If you insist on lecturing me about the experiments I conduct, you will be wasting valuable time and energy that could be put into something of importance; such as cleaning the flat, washing your hair, or fixing that damnable hole in the ozone layer.’

Dropping the laptop on the floor beside him, Sherlock wrapped the sheet tighter around himself and curled himself into a ball in his chair, petulantly pouting at his friend.

John rolled his eyes, used to Sherlock’s outbursts and child-like manners. ‘ _Nevertheless,_ there needs to be some boundaries.’

‘You no longer live here, so you have no say,’ Sherlock retorted.

Closing his eyes and counting to ten, John conceded mute defeat. There was no sense arguing with the man, he would only pout his way to victory. Much like a five-year-old.

_I need to find him a babysitter._

‘I am a grown man,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘I have no need for a babysitter.’

Accustomed to Sherlock’s ability to infer what he was thinking, John shrugged. ‘You’re right, a babysitter is for children.’

Sherlock nodded and grunted in triumph. John smirked and stood to leave. When he was halfway to the door, he called over his shoulder.

‘What you actually need is a keeper.’

With an indignant roar, Sherlock jumped up and chased the cackling Doctor down the stairs, losing his sheet in the process. John managed to close the outer door behind him and continued laughing as he made his way home.

Sherlock slammed the bolt into place, effectively locking out his addle-patted best friend. Naked, he stomped his way back upstairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s shouts of disapproval.

_Life was so much calmer without having friends and their incessant need for sarcastic wit._

He flung open the refrigerator door, staring at the container that had set the good doctor off on a tangent. The experiment was finished, but he had waited to dispose of it until John had come by. He smirked, remembering the look of horror on John’s face.

_Well, time to start a new experiment. I wonder if Molly has any spare appendages in the morgue._

And with that, he went about dressing himself, going so far as to wear that purple shirt Molly apparently liked so much, if her dilated pupils and near-heavy breathing was anything to go by. If he caught her in a good mood, a little mild flirting might even get him a couple extra fingers. 


	2. Let the Games Begin

‘Molly.’

The familiar baritone sounded far away.

‘Molly Hooper, wake up. I need to speak with you.’

Slowly she came back to herself, her entire body molded to her bed, exhaustion still very much present in her bones. Face down, she turned her head to the side.

‘Mmphf,’ she grunted, knowing full well who the insensitive git was that interrupted her rest. ‘Whadyawan?’

‘As I said, I need to speak with you. I have put the kettle on, even though I am a guest,’ his demand for her to make him tea was less than subtle. If she had the energy, she’d give him what-for. ‘It would be convenient if you would hasten to join me in the living room, as there is much to discuss.’

Too tired to be indignant about his high-handed ways, Molly merely quirked an eyebrow, her eyes still closed.

‘’msleepin,’ she mumbled and turned her head away, praying that he’d leave.

‘From speaking with Mike Stamford, you arrived home more than twelve hours ago. I assume you have been sleeping since then, therefore you have had sufficient rest.’ She heard him move about the room. Suddenly, with a grand _swish,_ bright light filled the room.

‘Sweet baby Je- Sherlock!’ She sat up, blinking frantically.

The despicable man stood, hands behind his back, by the offending window, smirking at her. Exhausted and angry that her sleep had been interrupted, she hurled her pillow at him. He easily dodged it, but underestimated her as the book from her nightstand smacked him square in the jaw.

Rubbing his stinging chin, he huffed, ‘Honestly, Doctor Hooper. That is no way to treat a guest.’

‘You’re not a guest, you’re a pestilence and quite honestly number 1 on my hit list,’ she growled, throwing the covers back and standing up.

As soon as the cold air hit her bare legs, she realized she was halfway to naked in front of Sherlock Holmes, her bra and knickers affording her some semblance of modesty. Her clothes lay in a heap from where she had shed them before crawling into hibernation.  With a loud shriek, she lunged over and pulled the entire comforter from her bed, holding it high on her chest as her entire body flushed hot.

They stood in silence, Molly utterly humiliated and looking at anything except Sherlock, who was staring unabashedly at her now-covered body. When several minutes passed, Molly shuffled her feet in impatience.

Sherlock jerked out of his daze, a befuddled look on his face. Whirling about, he strode from the room, leaving an embarrassed Molly in his wake. She relaxed immediately in relief. Sherlock stuck his head back in the room suddenly. She gasped and gathered more of the comforter about her body.

He smirked, arrogance back in full force.

‘I’m still waiting for my tea.’

His chuckle was answered with the sound of another book hitting the door. 

* * *

 

Dressed in yoga pants and a comfy tunic, Molly wordlessly handed Sherlock his cup of tea, resisting the urge to pour it over his swollen head. She sat in the opposite chair with a huff, not even trying to hide her annoyance with the Consulting Detective.

‘So, Sherlock,’ she asked, ‘what is so bloody important that you had to wake me up from the first good rest I’ve had in three days?’

‘You.’

Sputtering around her tea, she coughed and blinked in surprise, ‘Pardon?’

He rolled his eyes, ‘You were not at the morgue when I arrived yesterday. However, you were scheduled to be there. Mike Stamford informed me of your unexpected 3-day shift and that you were given the next five days off,’ he sneered, as though her absence would cause the rise of the criminal world.

‘So? If there was anything you needed that was case-related, Doctor Klaus would have assisted you. Unless you wanted to nick some body parts,’ she smirked knowingly.

His nose wrinkled in derision, ‘That man does not… agree with me on procedure. It is far more work to accommodate his _rules_ than yours.’

Molly giggled, ‘That’s only because you cannot flirt convincingly with a man.’

Sherlock stared at her hard, ‘I do not _flirt_ with anyone, man or woman.’

‘Yes, you do,’ she pointed her finger at him accusingly, ‘Why do you think I caved in to your demands for six years? You widen those beautiful eyes at me, pretend to absentmindedly ruffle your hair, and say something complimentary and I basically give you control over the morgue and lab.’

‘I-I do not _ruffle_ my hair,’ he sputtered indignantly.

Molly rolled her eyes, ignoring his denial. ‘Nevertheless, you have a tendency to use your appearance and sexuality to your advantage, especially around me, considering I give you bodies,’ she blushed, ‘I mean, body parts, dead body parts, for experiments…’ She trailed off, timid Molly rising up again. She’d been doing quite well in being confident and strong around the man she loved, putting aside her stuttering and stumbling to be his friend.

‘Fine,’ he spat, pouting at being labeled a flirt. ‘I flirt to get my way. But you, Molly Hooper, are worse.’

‘Me? How?’ she asked incredulously.

He pointed a finger at her, much like she had done before. ‘You give in to it. You know it’s fake, yet you have always given in to my requests.’

‘Demands,’ she corrected through clenched teeth. Suddenly, the conversation had taken a turn from teasing to something deeper.

‘So, who is worse? The person who is flirting to get his way or the woman who doesn’t have enough spine to say ‘no’?’

When the silence fell heavy between them and furious tears formed in Molly’s eyes as she lowered her head, Sherlock knew he had gone too far. Bracing himself for her inevitable sobbing, he grimaced.

‘You’re right,’ she whispered.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. ‘What?’

Molly raised her head, the tears gone and an inscrutable expression on her face. ‘I said, you’re right. I didn’t have enough spine to say no to you. I was so damn in love with you, any form of attention was enough,’ she laughed ruefully.

 _In love?_ Sherlock stared in shock as she stood and took her cup into the kitchen. He stood to follow her and opened his mouth to speak, but a knock at the door interrupted the tension between them. Molly did not even spare him a glance as she strode over to the door and opened it.

A tall man stood on the landing, his smiling face already setting Sherlock’s teeth on edge.

‘Justin!’ Molly exclaimed, happy to see someone genuinely nice for a change.

The other man, _Justin,_ Sherlock thought with a sneer, grinned wider and shifted his motorcycle helmet to his other side, extending his hand toward Molly.

‘I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself the other day,’ he laughed, ‘and I heard voices as I passed by and didn’t want to miss an opportunity. Justin Lane, at your service.’

Molly giggled and shook his hand, a blush rising in her cheeks. Sherlock grew agitated at the stranger, _office worker; architect by the smudges on the side of his hand, American,_ he visibly grimaced at the accent, _recently moved in as the flat above has been vacant up until now, single and flirting with my pathologist._

‘I hope I’m not interrupting,’ Justin asked, his gaze sliding past Molly to Sherlock.

Molly turned around, having nearly forgotten about Sherlock, ‘Oh, right, sorry. No, not interrupting. Justin, this is my… colleague, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is my new neighbor, Justin.’

Irritation and a sense of ( _was that hurt_ ) rose in Sherlock at being labeled a colleague. Not one to show any emotion, he stalked over to the two and shook the stranger’s hand firmly, a little too firmly based on the flash of pain across Justin’s face. ‘Nice to meet you, Sherlock.’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in reply.

Justin took back his hand, rubbing it absentmindedly as he turned back to Molly, a hopeful smile on his face. ‘Colleague, eh? So, does that mean you’re free for dinner this evening?’

‘She’ll be busy assisting me,’ Sherlock interjected in Molly’s surprised silence.

‘What? N-no, I’m won’t! I’m not!’ She frowned at him and turned to smile at Justin. ‘I’m more than free and would love to join you.’

Sherlock felt a beast inside him roar to life at being summarily dismissed as Molly made plans to show Justin a few London sights. When Justin bid them farewell, Molly shut the door behind him with a happy sigh, forgetting that Sherlock was standing beside her.

‘I thought I told you to avoid relationships,’ his voice harshly popped her happy little bubble.

With a groan, she whirled about and stomped to the sofa, plopping down in aggravation. ‘It’s not a relationship, Sherlock. It’s dinner with a new neighbor, someone who may become a friend.’

‘Friend?’ Sherlock snorted in disbelief, ‘Did you not observe the way he flirted with you, undressing you with his American eyes?’

In bemusement, Molly watched as Sherlock paced in agitation. ‘The only thing that man wants with you is to knock you over the head with a bat, toss you over his shoulder, and carry you back to his American cave to have his way with you.’

The sound of muffled snorts halted his pacing and he turned toward the sofa to see Molly doubled over, desperately trying to hold in her laughter.

She wheezed, tears of mirth pooling in her eyes. Unable to speak, she gave in to the raucous laughter at his expense. Ruffled and offended, Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he waited for her to regain control of her mirth.

Several minutes passed before she had calmed down. Sherlock glared at her, wordlessly demanding an apology. Molly narrowed her eyes in mock seriousness and raised her chin in defiance, her lips trembling with a threatening smile.

‘I stand by what I said,’ Sherlock finally broke their standoff. ‘He is only interested in ‘getting into your knickers’.’

Resisting the undeniable urge to fall into laughter again, Molly swallowed hard and composed herself to appear resigned, staring straight at Sherlock’s smug face.

‘That may be true,’ she admitted with a sigh. She had seen the appreciation in Justin’s gaze and it made her feel womanly, something she had not felt in a long time. She stood up wearily, opening the door and gesturing for Sherlock to leave. Begrudgingly, he knew he had well over-stayed his welcome and left her flat, though he turned around to have the last word.

Unfortunately for him, Molly beat him to it. With a wicked smile, she whispered seductively, ‘And if it is, he’s going to be very successful.’

With triumph in her eyes, she slammed the door on a stunned Consulting Detective.


	3. Companions and Categories

Two days after the 'Fridge Incident', as he'd come to call it, John had wandered up the stairs of 221B to find Sherlock in a brooding state of confusion. He sat in his chair, wearing day-old clothes and a frustrated frown. As usual when he was trying to figure something out, Sherlock plucked the strings of his violin, their distorted chords testifying to his agitation.

John went about preparing tea for the two of them and then sat in the chair opposite his friend, waiting for Sherlock to notice his presence. Ten minutes passed as the tea grew cold.

Finally, he came out of his stupor. 'Ah, John,' instantly, his face reverted to its normal haughty, indifferent façade. He set his violin on the table beside him and steepled his hands before him.

'Sherlock,' John smirked. They stared at each other, each daring the other to break first and speak their minds. Eventually, John acquiesced with a frustrated sigh.

'Fine, Mary is in the middle of her mood swings stage and has requested my absence from our house for no less than six hours,' he grumbled.

Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow, arrogantly indicating he had already deduced the reason for John's presence. His friend rolled his eyes and cleared away the cold tea, plodding into the kitchen mumbling curses at the egotistical detective.

'So, new case?' John asked as he returned from the kitchen.

To his immense surprise, Sherlock flinched. His fingers shifted and he resettled in his seat, as though uncomfortable. 'I'm not on a case.'

'Then why are you brooding like a teenager? Usually when you're not on a case, you're shooting up Mrs. Hudson's wall.'

Reluctantly, Sherlock admitted, 'Molly Hooper.'

'What about her?'

With great disgust, Sherlock sneered, 'She is currently on a date with an  _American_ who recently moved into the flat above hers.'

Still unsure of the problem, John questioned, 'Is this guy some evil mastermind or something?'

Sherlock snorted, 'He is an  _American._ Molly may not have the greatest history of romantic entanglements, but I never thought she would lower herself to this level.'

John willed himself not to show any surprise on his face as he saw the subtle signs of jealousy in Sherlock's behavior. 'Besides his nationality, is there anything else wrong with him?'

'No,' Sherlock huffed, 'even Mycroft's intelligence file showed that this  _Justin_ is a 'good man.' He is recently out of a relationship, but other than that, his tastes and personality are aligned with Molly's. An ideal match, if you will.'

'That's great, she deserves a good man. After Moriarty and then her broken engagement, she needs a healthy relationship,' John smirked at the grimace across Sherlock's face at the mention of her former fiancé.

Sherlock slouched in his chair and pouted, 'It is not great. She is not helping me with experiments tonight in favor of accompanying that idiot on a tour of London. She turned me down, John, for that imbecile. And then had the audacity to flirt with him in my presence and very nearly kick me out of her flat!'

'My God, really?' John laughed incredulously. 'Good for her, she already puts up with way too much from you.'

Glaring at him, Sherlock pushed up from his chair and stomped to his room, slamming the door behind him. John shook his head and pulled out his phone, knowing that the next six hours would be better spent with the cold shoulder of Sherlock than with the hormonal rages of his pregnant wife.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock emerged garbed in an ill-fitting gray jacket and ratty jeans, a black cap smashed over his head, a grey wig jutting out from the brim. His face was smudged and he held John's old cane in his right hand.

'Where are you going?' John asked as Sherlock strode past.

'Out,' Sherlock snapped and flew down the stairs into the London night. John huffed and returned to the game on his phone.

Whatever was going on between Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper would come to light eventually. He only hoped he was there when it happened.

* * *

Molly laughed, enjoying a Sherlock-free evening with her charming new neighbor. Justin's anecdotes about American life compared to what he was discovering in London had kept her in stitches most of the evening.

They were sipping cool drinks as the evening came to a close, their feet, comfortably sore from wandering about the London streets, dangling from the high stools of their table by the café window. In between conversations, they sat in comfortable silence and watched London life trickle past the café.

Molly could not remember having a better time. Justin was the perfect companion, gallant when the occasion arose, yet playful when he saw an opportunity. He enjoyed most of her favorite shows, despised the opera, and had a tendency to make jokes at inopportune times. Unfortunately, whatever initial attraction Molly had for him had faded as the evening progressed and she began to see more of a friend in him than a potential boyfriend.

As they watched out the window, a couple left the café and hailed a cab. With a passionate kiss, the man bid his girlfriend goodbye and watched with a smitten smile as she climbed into the cab and drove off. Molly blushed as she realized she had been staring unabashedly. She turned back and found a contemplative Justin looking at her. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

'I suppose I should say this now, so I don't lead you on.'

'Sorry?'

He took a deep breath, 'To be honest, Molly, I'm not looking for a relationship.' He smiled sadly and looked down, 'It's kind of why I left the U.S.,' he spoke into his drink, swirling the rapidly melting cubes around.

Although relieved he wasn't interested either, something about his tone clued Molly in to some form of heartbreak on his end. She felt herself empathizing, someone left him or was taken from him, leaving him broken and shattered. She reached over and placed her hand over his. His gaze flew to hers and she smiled gently, 'It's all right. H-how about friends?'

He shoulders relaxed as he sighed in relief, 'Friends. Definitely.' He turned his hand over and squeezed her fingers before she pulled them back.

A comfortable silence stretched between them as Molly began to put Justin in another category. Yes, gorgeous, fit, and kind were three perfect characteristics of a potential boyfriend, but as she looked at him, she realized he was too similar to her. Their identical levels sensitivity and tastes would be detrimental to a relationship at some point down the road, dull and lacking passion. Her mind seemed to automatically place Justin under the heading of 'Friend.' And she realized she was perfectly fine with that.

'Besides,' Justin broke the silence, smiling ruefully, 'I wouldn't want to come between you and Tall, Dark, and Possessive.'

Molly sputtered around her drink, shaking her head frantically as she cleared her throat, 'Wh-what? Sherlock? No, no, Sherlock is, no, definitely not, no-' She bit her lip to stop her rambling, an embarrassed flush coursing across her cheeks.

Justin furrowed his brow in confusion, 'Sorry, I just assumed-'

'Sherlock is many things,' Molly interrupted to clear up the misunderstanding, 'but  _interested_  is not one of them.'

Justin tilted his head as he listened. Molly tried to keep any lingering sadness about Sherlock's disinterest from her expression and tone, but something must have slipped through. Justin's face softened in compassion and he reached for her hand, grasping it in understanding. She tried to smile, her lips tightening into a grimace.

'Well, enough of that,' she declared, straightening in her seat and shoving thoughts of Sherlock away.

'Definitely,' Justin agreed, 'a bit heavy for the 'getting to know you' dinner tour of London.'

Laughing, Molly stood and dropped some cash on the table before the two made their way from the café.

Across the room and out of earshot, an old man in a black cap peered over the top of his newspaper, his blue-green eyes narrowed at their retreating figures. And if his fists had crumpled the newspaper when the couple linked arms outside the restaurant, he put it down to the bitter aftertaste of the café's coffee.


	4. Parties and Plans

'Well, it seems as though you were indeed the unfortunate victim of an undiagnosed heart condition.' Molly's kind words were heard only by her own ears, the poor soul on the table before her having departed this life several days prior. With practiced ease, Molly began stitching the y-incision in Mister Cavanaugh's chest, humming an 80s pop tune under her breath. She giggled as she realized it was the same song from the night before.

It had been a month since Justin has moved in and most nights that she wasn't working had been spent in his company. Although they shared the same taste in crap telly and had similar personalities, in general, Justin was more socially outgoing, creating a solid group of work and social friends within a matter of days. At first, Molly had been afraid she would be pushed out of his circle, but to her immense surprise she was included at all their gatherings.

Still extremely shy and awkward around the living, Molly had trouble being open within the group. Justin apparently noticed this and made it his mission to get her to loosen up and the rest had followed his lead.  _That damn American,_ she thought fondly. Last night at the pub, some of the girls had good-naturedly challenged her to get up and sing karaoke, despite her adamant pleadings that she sang like a wounded moose.

_'_ _Oh, no, no, please,' she begged, trying not to cave into the peer pressure from her friends. Gina and Marco stood and flanked her chair, trying to coerce her to stand. The others sitting around the table either pouted at her in an attempt to guilt her into it or were calling out encouragements._

_'_ _It'll be fun, Hooper!' Gina laughed as she successfully pulled Molly to her feet. The curvaceous blonde began to pull a horrified Molly toward the karaoke machine, Molly turning her head to look pleadingly at Justin, who just smiled encouragingly and let out a '_ whoop whoop' as he pumped his fist.

_'_ _Crush it, Molly!' Marco swung his arm around his girlfriend and sent Molly a reassuring smile as she flushed from the attention of so many people._

Before she knew it, she and Gina were mutilating 80s pop songs before fifty people and having an absolute blast. Their group gave them a standing ovation, cat-calls and all. Molly smiled at the memory. Two months ago, she would have died of embarrassment from singing in public. But since Justin, and subsequently the rest, began prodding her out of her comfort zone, she found herself becoming more confident in herself. Even in standing up to Sherlock, which she had done on several occasions, when he had barged into the lab demanding body parts.

Molly glanced at the clock as she slid Mister Cavanaugh's body back into the cold storage. 6:54. She had plans to be at a local pub for dinner with Justin and the others at 7:30. In the six minutes remaining of her shift, she scrubbed the table and her medical instruments, placing a new tray out for the next pathologist on shift.

Within half an hour, she had showered and changed in the locker room, trying to get the smell of death to leave her presence. Molly smiled and made her way out the doors, ready to wind down with her friends.

Unfortunately, that crotchety bitch called Fate was in the mood for a laugh. No sooner had she taken her first breath of crisp, London air, than Sherlock Holmes strode into view.

'Molly,' Sherlock acknowledged her with a nod, his eyes moving to the doors behind her, 'I need your presence in the lab.'

'Wha-, no, Sherlock, I-I'm going out,' Molly stammered, annoyed that his presence could still sometimes catch her off guard. He walked around her. Apparently, he had ignored what she said and expected her to follow along like some lackey because when he flung the door open and glanced behind him, he halted in surprise and turned around slowly.

'Time is not to be wasted, Doctor Hooper,' Sherlock emphasized darkly.

She straightened up, trying to make herself feel taller and therefore more confident, 'I-is it for a case?'  _Damn my stammer._

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but did not reply. Molly nodded at his telling silence and turned to leave, 'Good night then.'

'Molly Hooper,' a disgruntled Sherlock suddenly appeared in her path. She stumbled a few steps back in surprise. 'My experiments cannot wait another day.'

'Yes, they can, Sherlock,' Molly said bravely, trying not to cave in to his pressuring. 'Or just butter up Doctor Klaus instead of deducing the poor man and he may let you into the lab.'

He stared at her in silence. His gaze traveled the length of her body and his eyes widened as information he'd been ignoring suddenly became glaringly obvious.  _Fancy purple dress, cut modestly low, shows off her legs; simple pearl necklace; light make-up; unbound hair; enticing jasmine perfume. Conclusion: Date._

His heart pounded and a rushing noise filled his ears.  _That bloody American._ 'I thought I warned you to avoid any attempt at a relationship, especially with that animal of a neighbor,' he sneered.

A deep, angry blush colored her cheeks and he instantly regretted his tone. Before he could smooth it over, she hissed, 'I thank you not to insult my friends, Sherlock Holmes. Good night.'

With an angry glare, she spun on her heel and marched down the sidewalk. It would have been a grand exit, Sherlock gaping after her in a mixture of shock and rage, if she had not tripped on a crack. Stumbling, she quickly regained her footing and continued on, now more embarrassed than angry.  _Clumsy Molly just had to come out and play._ She thought ruefully. She allowed herself a few minutes of self-pity, before putting it behind her in order to enjoy the evening. She hadn't bothered to correct Sherlock. She wasn't looking for a relationship, not with Justin or any of the other men in the group. But they made her feel womanly, interesting, but most importantly, they let her know she  _counted_  to , with a bounce in her step, Molly felt the stress of the day evaporate as she walked on, feeling shameful that she had been angry at Sherlock, yet empowered that she ultimately stood her ground.

Sherlock stared at Molly's retreating figure, an unfamiliar tightening in his chest. She had never before walked away from him. He narrowed his eyes as she disappeared into the oncoming night and, with a whirl of his Belstaff, he retreated to Baker Street. Something must be done about this American and his distracting of Sherlock's pathologist.

* * *

 'Sherlock!' A stinging pain speared across Sherlock's cheek, effectively tossing him out of his Mind Palace.

He opened his watering eyes to see an angry John standing above him.

'You text me that you need help immediately, I leave my pregnant wife at home thinking you're in mortal danger, and I come here to find you wandering your sodding Mind Palace and spend fifteen minutes trying to get you out,' John breathed evenly, his anger unabated, but under control for now.

Sherlock stood up quickly and began pacing, 'Nevertheless, you are here and I need assistance,' he froze and his gaze flicked to John's hand, 'verbal assistance, that is.'

John rolled his eyes. 'What,  _what_ could you possibly need assistance with, Oh Great Sherlock Holmes?'

 _Clearly, Mary is still in the throes of hormonal mood swings and John is on the receiving end of her less-than-kind_ _words, thus his shorter temper than usual_. He raked his gaze over his friend's rumpled appearance.  _Red, tired eyes from a double shift at the surgery, shirt has not been ironed recently, thrown on in carelessness. Ah, he had been retiring early to bed when I texted and threw on a used shirt._

'I… apologize for inconveniencing you,' Sherlock said somewhat hesitantly, feeling somewhat not good about worrying his friend, but mostly knowing that an agitated John would be less likely to offer assistance.

John blinked in surprise, but recovered quickly. 'Either you want something or have undergone a significant personality change. I'm more inclined to believe the former.'

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock huffed and plopped down on the sofa, throwing his head back. 'I do want something.'

'What?' John turned 'his' chair slightly toward the sofa and sat down.

'I want my pathologist back,' Sherlock murmured at the ceiling.

John leaned forward, 'What was that?'

Whipping his head down violently, Sherlock glared at John, 'I said that I want Molly to help me again.'

'What are you talking about, she helps you all the time!' John frowned in confusion. 'There is a bag of big toes in there she gave you just yesterday.'

'Yes, yes,' Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and looked away, 'but she has not been as conveniently assisting as she once was when I need the lab. She actually refused to work with me tonight. I need your help in figuring out a way to return her to normal and be rid of that  _American._ '

John snorted, 'No, I won't help you. She needs a life outside of you and the lab. Maybe it's time you learned to work with other pathologists, anyway, and find out how to get along with others. So, good on her, I say.'

Sherlock glared at him, a definite pout on his face.

'Now, if that is all, Mary asked me to bring home some ice cream and cheese wedges once you were considered out of danger,' John scoffed as he stood to leave, 'so, now that the world revolving around Sherlock Holmes has been deemed safe, I shall be off.'

'It is not 'good',' Sherlock whinged, ignoring his friend's insults. 'This is the third time this month that she has refused to assist me in favor of going out with that caveman.'

John rolled his eyes at the child-like petulance pouring off the Consulting Detective. 'Well, if she likes the guy, she wants to spend time with him. Especially if he  _honestly_  flatters her and makes her feel good about herself,' he said pointedly. 'Let her move on and be happy, Sherlock.' With a final glare at his friend, John left the flat.

Sherlock frowned in thought.  _Interesting, she spends time with that American because he makes her feel good about herself._ He recalled the times he had flirted with Molly, using her feelings for him to get her to bend to his will. Apparently, after six years, she had grown somewhat immune to his surface flirting.

 _Perhaps,_ his eyes brightened with an idea,  _if I were to make her think I was pursuing her romantically, she would dump that American and return to her previous level of assistance, if not higher. She will want to spend all her time with me, a great asset for when I need access to the lab or morgue outside her normal hours. Maybe she'll let me take an entire body for experiments!_

His mind suddenly began to teem with ideas and hypotheses.

_First, research._

Grabbing his laptop, Sherlock immediately began delving into the world of flowers, flirting, and wooing. After more than an hour, the amount of information from women's magazines, websites, and blogs overwhelmed him and he realized that this experiment would not be a simple process of the right words and the right expressions. Romancing was a con, elaborate and complex, leading to a single, successful outcome. Dates, subtle innuendos, overt flirting, genuine smiles… there was too much to compute at once.

Opening a new document, Sherlock began building a record log for his trial.

_Experiment in Romantic Pursuits_

_Trial 1_

_Subject: Margaret Elizabeth Hooper_

_Hypothesis: Courting the subject will ultimately lead to a higher level of assistance in morgue and laboratory procedures, as well as more frequently acquiescing to favors given that the subject is provided with sufficient romantic overtures._

With a smile, he began outlining a timeline for romancing Molly Hooper, culminating in her unhindered acquiescence to any request he might ask.

_The game is on, Molly Hooper._


	5. Gestures and Failures

**Thursday**

_Hypothesis: A man will endear himself to a woman by bringing her something she needs without her asking._

The evening hour found Molly in her small office buried under a mountain of paperwork, her tired eyes begging her to shut them. Her hand ached from writing for nearly seven hours and her back protested her sitting position, even on a somewhat comfortable office chair.

Suddenly, a mug of coffee was plopped down next to her, the enticing aroma reawakening her senses.

‘Cream, three sugars.’

Molly whipped her head up at the sound of Sherlock’s voice above her. He smiled briefly, tight-lipped and forced.

She blinked at him in surprise. ‘Thank you.’ She picked up the cup and breathed in the heavenly aroma before taking a sip. Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘This isn’t from the canteen.’

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust, ‘Obviously. The coffee from the canteen is not fit for consumption by any living being. This is from the café down the block.’

‘Oh.’

When she didn’t say anything more, Sherlock shifted somewhat uncomfortably and then quickly ducked out of her office. He was almost out into the hallway when she called out to him from the doorway of her office, ‘I-is there something you need?’

‘No,’ he replied. She frowned in confusion.

‘Then why-‘

He huffed in frustration, ‘I was simply being nice. Is that such a difficult concept to grasp?’

Despite her surprise, Molly managed to smirk, ‘Um, yes. Sherlock Holmes does not do ‘nice’ without an ulterior motive.’

A flash of something crossed his face, Molly could have sworn it was guilt, before it was replaced with his usual cool façade. He whirled about, tossing a ‘good day’ over his shoulder, as Molly stared after him in confusion.

* * *

 

**Friday**

_Hypothesis: A woman will be sufficiently informed of romantic interest through the gift of flowers._

As Molly was about to make the first incision into the body of a middle-aged man, the morgue doors flew open with a ruckus, making her squeak and jump in surprise. Her scalpel fell to the floor as she whirled about.

'Sherlock,' she scolded breathlessly when she recognized the stoic intruder, 'you gave me such a fright.'

Sherlock merely stared at her, most likely deducing the day she'd had. After a minute, he strode over to her table, hands clasped behind his back as he perused the body waiting to be autopsied. 'Mmm, heart attack. Boring.'

Molly bit back a smile at his tone. 'Yes, a bit. But his family wants to be sure, so…' she waved her hand over the body before bending to retrieve the dropped scalpel. As she straightened and turned to sterilize it, she found her vision clouded in reds and pinks, her senses filled with a sweet scent. Blinking in surprise, she realized a bouquet of roses was being thrust practically under her nose. She followed the gloved hand that held them up a long arm to the inscrutable face of Sherlock.

'These are for you.'

She gaped at him. 'Wh-what?'

He pushed the bouquet firmly into her trembling hands. 'I have been informed that a gift of roses is a romantic gesture. Is that not so?'

Molly blushed deeply as she stared at the beautiful arrangement.  _Romantic?!_ 'W-well, yes, it is, they are. But you've never, I mean, not with me, at least, not that I don't like them, just… why?'

This was not going according to plan, there were no exclamations of joy or shrieks of happiness. His plan depended on her immediate acceptance of his interest, no questions. He shifted his gaze away, trying to find the words to explain the flowers without giving away the experiment.

Molly followed his gaze and smiled sadly, the flicker of hope the flowers brought her was doused by his obvious intentions, 'Oh, Sherlock.' He looked at her, confused. 'You don't have to bring me coffee or flowers or even flirt. Just ask.'

_This was remarkably easy. But her facial expression indicates sadness._ 'I would have thought you'd be-'

Before he could finish, however, Molly interrupted, 'I'm sure I can get you a spleen or even a liver, just let me finish his autopsy and get the paperwork in order. The flowers are a bit much,' she fingered the soft petals. Understanding hit as she lifted her gaze and smiled cheekily at him, 'unless you were hoping for an entire body.'

He stared at her.

Several moments passed as he looked down at her, unblinking. Molly's smile faded. She began to feel more than a bit uncomfortable and, hesitantly, reached up to prod his shoulder. 'Sherlock?'

Rapidly blinking, he came out of his daze. With a scowl, he whirled about and fled the room, leaving a bemused Molly holding a confusing bouquet of roses.

'Bye,' she murmured as the doors swung closed behind him. She brought the flowers to her nose, their rich scent bringing a smile to her face.  _Flowers from Sherlock._ She giggled.  _He must really want a body._

* * *

 

_Hypotheses failed. Bringing coffee to the subject caused confusion. Flowers were accepted by subject, but intentions were misinterpreted, despite the explicit statement of romantic intent._

Sherlock glared at the screen of his laptop. How could Molly have misunderstood? His bringing her coffee yesterday was a clear indication of interest, as were the flowers. He had specifically _said_ that the flowers were a romantic gesture. She even blushed and stammered like she once did, before the Fall, before she apparently relegated him to a simple 'friend.' With a growl, he slammed the laptop shut and tossed it onto the opposite chair.

The experiment was not proceeding as he had predicted. Already, it was one day behind schedule and Sherlock was less than thrilled about the failure.

_For someone who claimed to be 'in love' with me, she most certainly did not react in a predictable manner to the appearance of my reciprocation. Is she no longer 'in love' with me?_

Immediately, the image of that American came unbidden to his mind. His nose wrinkled in derision.  _Blasted foreigner. He is the reason Molly has been unhelpful as of late, and apparently she has taken her affections for me and is transferring them onto him._

Sherlock scowled. Something needed to be done about that damn American.


	6. Consequences

**Friday Evening**

It was with great trepidation that John climbed the stairs to 221B. He could hear the raised voices bickering back and forth, Sherlock's distinctive baritone laced with a healthy dose of aggravation. John hesitated on the landing outside the flat when he recognized the other party as Mycroft Holmes.  _I do not want to enter another Holmes Brother's argument._ He was about to turn and leave when the door was flung open.

Mycroft barely acknowledged the doctor as he swept gracefully from the flat, umbrella looped over his arm and called over his shoulder.

'Good day, Doctor Watson. And Sherlock, I  _will_ be informing Mummy about this… incident.' With that, the British Government descended the stairs and walked outside just as a non-descript car drove up.

Sherlock snarled at his retreating brother and whirled about, his dressing gown hanging off one shoulder. John raised his eyebrows and stepped inside the flat, prepared for a Sherlock-level typhoon of frustration.

Surprisingly, the detective passed by his violin and the stack of papers on the desk. He huffed and stomped to the window where he stood rigidly and stared outside.

'So, what did you manage to cock up this time?'

'It seems brother dearest is incapable of performing a simple deportation at the bequest of a concerned citizen,' Sherlock grumbled.

'Um,' John stepped closer in confusion, 'who exactly are you trying to deport?'

To John's surprise, a faint blush stained the back of Sherlock's pale neck. The detective coughed slightly and moved away from the window, avoiding meeting John's eyes.

'Tea?'

'Sherlock,' John warned.

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock abandoned his trek to the kitchen and plopped down into his leather chair. 'Surely there are people of various levels of illness you could be healing instead of interrogating me, Doctor Watson.'

'Nice try. Tell me who it is.'

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock mumbled, 'That bloody American.'

John blinked in surprise, 'Who? Wait, Molly's American?'

'He's not Molly's!' Sherlock shouted, springing up and towering over the shorter man.

'Right,' John's eyes widened in surprise and not a small touch of fear, 'why would you want to deport him?'

Sherlock took a step back, his intense gaze still leveled at John, 'He is an obstacle to the justice system of New Scotland Yard.'

Several moments passed as John sorted out the vague answer. He began to smirk as he realized what Sherlock really meant.

'Stop smiling,' Sherlock sneered.

John smiled wider, 'This is rich. You're jealous of him! Molly spends more time with him than you and it's driving you crazy!'

_Life was so much simpler without 'friends',_ Sherlock thought. He pouted and waited for his 'best friend' to stop grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

Just as John was about to resume his questioning, the door to the street was thrust open with a bang. Thunderous steps accompanied a familiar voice uncharacteristically bellowing, 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes! You complete arse!'

Molly Hooper stormed into the flat, marched right up to the frozen Consulting Detective, and delivered a spectacular slap to his left cheek.

'How dare you,' she seethed, tiny fists balled at her sides, 'how dare you do that to him!'

Sherlock gulped audibly, a flash of fear at the usually timid pathologist unveiling the full force of her wrath. His mouth opened and closed a few times.

'Is that why you bought me flowers and coffee, so I'd be more malleable and let you get away with this?' Despite her short stature, Molly appeared to tower over the cowering man. 'Because it's going to take more than your usual fake flirting to fix this!'

'You bought her flowers  _and_ coffee?' John interjected, incredulous. Molly flinched, unaware that John had been watching the whole tirade, but her anger did not abate. Sherlock shrugged out of his shock and rolled his eyes.

'You can't even get your own damn phone from your jacket pocket!'

'Oh, come off it, John,' Molly spat to the surprise of both men. 'He did something to convince  _MI5_  that Justin was a threat and this afternoon they practically kidnapped him,  _from his office!_ Sherlock Holmes, if you don't fix this I will kill you,  _again,_ and this time you'll stay dead!'

Sherlock had the good sense to agree with the furious woman and nodded solemnly.

Satisfied that her point had been made, Molly took several deep breaths and turned to leave. Before she reached the door, she suddenly grimaced and looked to John, 'Sorry I snapped at you,' she said with her usual timidity and blush. With a final death glare at the properly chastised Consulting Detective, she left.

John crossed his arms and turned to Sherlock, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock fingers fidgeted under the stare.

'What?' he snapped.

'I'm just wondering why you can't simply tell Molly how you feel,' John deadpanned.

Sherlock blinked, 'I don't feel anything for Molly.'

John nodded, 'So kicking her boyfriend out of the country was what, a prank?'

'I didn't kick her  _boyfriend,_ ' Sherlock looked visibly disgusted by the word, 'out of anywhere, Mycroft interfered before he was deported.'

'Mmmhmmm,' smirking, John turned around and began making tea. Sherlock followed him into the kitchen, petulantly complaining.

'If we let every American into this country, what will happen to the British nation? Soon we'll be saying things like  _apartment_ and  _cookies_ and God knows what else.'

John let the argument slide and finished making his tea as Sherlock ranted, knowing he was only trying to divert attention from his true feelings. And anything John said to scold him for his behavior would fall on deaf ears. Best to leave that to Mummy.

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt._

Speaking of whom…

John smiled smugly as Sherlock's face paled considerably and his eyes darted to his phone in fear.

'Best answer it now, Sherlock. Get it over with,' John advised, sipping his tea nonchalantly.

Sherlock gulped and picked up the vibrating cell phone. His thumb shook as he pressed the answer button.

'Hello, Mummy.'

John smiled widely as he heard the incoherent shouts that made Sherlock grimace.

_Ah, sweet justice._


	7. The Heart to His Mind

Molly seethed all the way back to her flat. Her thoughts thus preoccupied, she didn’t see the nondescript black car parked just ahead, a familiar figure leaning against a familiar umbrella beside it, watching her approach.

‘Miss Hooper.’

She stumbled in surprise at the sound of her name right beside her. A hand grasped her upper arm and steadied her.

‘Oh,’ she gasped, looking up into the stoic face of Mycroft Holmes. ‘Sorry, I was a bit… um, angry… should have watched where I was going.’ She stepped back and absentmindedly brushed the wrinkles from her cardigan.

‘I understand you have just come from Baker Street,’ Mycroft twirled his umbrella and spoke casually.

Her anger rising once more, Molly narrowed her eyes at him, ‘Did you have _anything_ to do-‘

‘I assure you that Sherlock acted alone.’

Molly frowned for a moment, then nodded.

‘Also, I have taken it upon myself to… _fix_ my dear brother’s mistake. Your friend will find that his position is, in fact, more secure than before, as well as financial compensation fitting the slander to which he has been subjected.’

‘Thank you,’ Molly smiled in surprised disbelief. ‘I-I’m sure Justin will be very grateful.’

‘I did not do it for your _friend,_ ’ his nose wrinkled. ‘My brother has taken it upon himself to go about experimenting in sentiment. As much as I disapprove of his methods, I believe his intentions to be sincere, whether he knows it or not. As such, I intend to do my best to prevent the failure of this experiment. Were you to disassociate yourself from Sherlock on behalf of one’ he reached into his jacket pocket and flipped open a notepad to read, ‘Justin Lane, then his experiment would fail.’

Molly blinked up at him in confusion, stammering. ‘Experiment? In… what? Intentions?’

Mycroft merely smirked at her, ignoring her questions. ‘May I offer you a lift home?’ He gestured to the car, the driver suddenly appearing to open the door.

‘Oh, um, yes, that’s nice of… you,’ Molly furrowed her brow, still trying to understand what Mycroft had said.

They settled into the back seat, Mycroft sitting across from her, and were soon on their way to her flat.

Several moments of silence passed before Molly found the courage to speak, ‘When you said ‘experiment in sentiment,’ what did you mean?’

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow and turned to look out the window, ‘Sherlock, like myself, believes sentiment to be damning, something that holds us back. However, under recent examination, I have rescinded my opinion.’ His fingers brushed over the simple gold ring encircling the ring finger of his other hand.

‘Oh,’ Molly gasped in surprise and leaned forward, ‘You’re married?’

‘Indeed.’

When he did not elaborate, she sat back. ‘What does this have to do with Sherlock?’

‘Yes, Sherlock,’ he sighed. ‘Despite his adamant stance of being heartless, he is the more sentimental of the two of us. He has long since buried all emotion, and now, when those emotions are beginning to rise in earnest, he does not know how to handle them.’

Molly frowned and shook her head, ‘I don’t… what does that have to do with me?’

He smiled condescendingly, but his tone was soft, ‘Sherlock loves you.’

Unable to stop it, Molly snorted in disbelief. ‘No, no, he doesn’t.’

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and stared at her.

‘He _doesn’t._ ’ She crossed her arms over her chest as her heart started pounding frantically and she felt her entire body flush, ‘If Sherlock _was_ able to love someone romantically, it would not be me. Definitely not, no, he doesn’t, he wouldn’t.’

‘Why would he not?’

The air felt stifling and she felt tears prick her eyes.

‘Because I’m not beautiful,’ she spat. ‘My lips are too thin, my breasts are too small, and I can’t even talk to him without sounding like an idiot. He would love someone who is clever and stunning, someone who was his equal.’

She had contented herself to simply being his friend, burying her feelings and any hope for his love deep inside the cracks in her heart. And here was Mycroft, tearing open those cracks and lighting the flame of hope again. She began to feel suffocated and was glad to see the familiar buildings of her street out the window. The car pulled alongside the curb and Molly scrambled to get out.

‘Sherlock is not a shallow man, despite what you think,’ Mycroft climbed out behind her and watched as she grappled with her bag to find her keys. ‘You may not be his equal, but perhaps that is not what he needs.’

Molly froze and glanced behind her.

‘Perhaps what he needs,’ Mycroft tilted his head down and stared at her pointedly, ‘is someone who is his complement. The kindness to his rudeness, the compassion to his disinterest, the _heart_ to his mind.’

She stared at him, fighting against the spark of hope she knew would only bring her more heartbreak.

‘I advise you to think on his actions this past week,’ Mycroft turned and slid back inside the car. ‘Good day, Molly Hooper.’

The door shut and Molly watched as the car maneuvered into traffic and disappeared around the corner.


	8. Fury and Resolve

The next few days were a blur. Surrounded by a mountain of paperwork, Molly buried herself in work, ignoring the niggling voice in the back of her head that demanded she actually sit down and think on what Mycroft had told her.

She categorically refused.

She had spent too many years pining for the man and she’d be damned if Mycroft Holmes was going to screw up her plan to ‘move on from that beautiful, brilliant sod.’

Sherlock had not made an appearance at St. Bart’s and Molly was more than relieved. Working longer shifts in the lab and immediately heading home to crawl into bed, she’d so far managed to avoid fanning the flame of hope that Mycroft had ignited.

On this particular night, Molly had begged off going to dinner with her friends in order to get ahead on her research paper. She was all settled in; laptop, wine, and the entire stock of her ‘unhealthy’ cabinet spread out on the coffee table.

_No Sherlock and no thoughts of Sherlock. For the next few hours, it’s just me and the decomposition of eyeballs._

Unfortunately for her, Mary Watson was currently walking up the stairs. The former assassin was on a mission to bring her two friends together before her husband shoots the emotionally stunted Consulting Detective. And in her current hormonal state, she might even load the bloody gun for him.

The gentle, but brisk knock startled Molly into nearly knocking over her wine glass.

‘Son of a gun!’ she exclaimed, steadying her glass. Another knock sounded and she stood quickly, licking the splattered drops from her hand as she went to the door.

She frowned at the unfamiliar brown beanie on the other side of the peephole and opened the door. ‘Oh, Mary, hi.’

‘Molly Hooper, you and I need to chat,’ the blonde commanded firmly, a slight smile on her face.

‘Um, okay?’ Molly stood back and let her in, suddenly aware of the state of her flat and her rather ratty clothing.

‘I was actually in the middle of some research, sorry for the mess,’ she made to straighten up, but Mary grabbed her arm and pulled her over to the table.

‘Forget the research, forget the mess, I have something important to discuss with you.’

Molly sank into the chair slowly, ‘Is something wrong? Is it the baby?’ She reached over the table in concern.

‘I’m fine, the baby’s fine,’ Mary assured her and Molly relaxed, though still confused. ‘I need to speak with you about Sherlock.

Molly blanched, ‘I really don’t wa-‘

‘I know you don’t. But that won’t make the problem go away.’

Molly huffed. ‘I never said I wanted it to go away, but I don’t want to deal with a jealous Sherlock,’ Mary opened her mouth to interject, but Molly cut her off, ‘Just because I suddenly have a life outside the lab, his entire world has been upended. For God’s sake, if he learned how to treat people nicely, I wouldn’t be the only person willing to put up with his Royal Highness and he could have full run of the lab round the clock.’

She narrowed her eyes as Mary fought a smirk. The pregnant blonde leaned back in her seat.

‘That overgrown child has the emotional understanding of a six-year-old. He pulls pigtails, he shoves boys who play with his toy; he doesn’t understand what he’s feeling.’

‘So I’m his toy? Lovely,’ Molly spat, feeling slightly guilty about taking out her frustrations on an expectant mother, but not willing to back down.

‘In a way,’ Mary nodded, ‘To him you’re indispensable and he sees Justin as a threat, someone who will take you away from him. Did you know he calls you _his_ pathologist? He doesn’t deal with emotions well, but I think that’s his way of… _claiming_ you. Even if he hasn’t realized it yet.’

Molly blinked in surprise. ‘Oh… well, that doesn’t _mean_ anything. Like you said, he’s emotionally like a child, I used to drop everything for him. He’s just not dealing well with the idea of my not being at his beck and call.’

Mary smiled knowingly. ‘He’s a bit of an idiot when it comes to emotions.’ She reached into her bag and pulled out a couple papers. ‘He loves you, but that damn logical mind of his doesn’t know how to process it.’ She laid the papers on the table. ‘John swiped this from Sherlock’s computer. Just promise me you’ll look at it with the understanding that even _Sherlock_ doesn’t know what he’s feeling.’

With a quick hug, the pregnant Mary swept from the flat, leaving a baffled Molly staring at two pieces of innocuous paper. Hesitantly, she picked them up and began to read. 

* * *

 

_Crash!_

With a strangled shriek, Molly hurled another glass at the wall, its shattered remains falling to the ground to join the shards of three other glasses. Tears threatened to spill over as she read the papers once more.

_Experiment in Romantic Pursuits_

_Trial 1_

_Subject: Margaret Elizabeth Hooper_

_A damn experiment, that’s all I am to him!_

Her fury rising, she shoved the papers into her bag and rushed through her flat, throwing on a pair of jeans and her coat, before storming out outside and hailing a cab.

‘Baker Street,’ she spat at the poor cabbie. The lights of London flashed by, but Molly’s vision was obscured by red fury. She seethed the entire ride, throwing a wad of bills at the driver before hurling herself from the taxi before it had even fully stopped.

For the second time in less than a week, she found herself pounding up the stairs of Baker Street, intent on doing bodily harm to the man she loved. But this time, no meager slap would satisfy her wrath. Nope, her fury ran more towards castration, or at least a decent pummeling.

The door to his flat was uncommonly shut, but that did not slow her down. She shoved her way into the lounge, hair in disarray, coat gaping open, and fists ready to find their mark.

At her entrance, Sherlock, who had been sitting in his chair, jumped up. ‘Molly, what are-‘

‘I’m an experiment?’ As angry as she was, Molly could barely manage a whisper, fury and sorrow weaving their way into her rasping tone. Sherlock blanched.

‘Answer me,’ Molly demanded, her voice returning with a vengeance as she shouted, ‘Am. I. An. Experiment?’

Stoic Sherlock returned and he relaxed, ‘I’m not sure where you got such a ridiculous notion, but…’

He trailed off and gulped audibly as Molly withdrew the crumpled papers from her bag. ‘Would you like to try again?’ She thrust them at his chest, ‘Because if you lie to me, you’ll be singing soprano until next August.’

He pulled the papers away from his chest and stared at them. ‘Mary,’ he accused under his breath.

‘Sherlock, Doctor Hooper,’ a calm voice cut through the tension, ‘I do hope I’m interrupting before things get messy.’

Molly whirled about. Standing in the door, calm and collected as always, Mycroft Holmes quirked an eyebrow.

‘I see no blood has been shed,’ he deadpanned.

Molly clenched her fists at her sides and hissed, ‘Not yet.’ She heard Sherlock swallow loudly once more behind her.

Mycroft chuckled, ‘Oh, yes. I do suppose he has had it coming for some time. Don’t you agree, brother mine?’ Molly almost cracked a smile at the mocking tone of the older Holmes.  Almost.

Sherlock merely grunted.

‘Now, what is this about?’ Mycroft stepped inside the flat and carefully sidestepped the still furious Molly in order to lower himself gracefully onto the sofa, his umbrella leaning against the side. ‘Sherlock?’

Molly crossed her arms and looked up at the Consulting Detective, ‘Yes, Sherlock. Explain.’

Flicking a cornered gaze between the two of them, Sherlock remained silent.

Molly moved to sit in ‘John’s’ chair, her posture stiff and unyielding. ‘I can wait all night, Sherlock.’

The tension in the room grew unbearable, as Sherlock tried desperately to think of a way to escape. Finally, he snapped.

‘Fine,’ he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air, ‘Yes, you were an experiment. But only because you stopped being helpful to me, and I wanted that Molly back. I tried to get rid of that American so I could have full access to the lab at any time, body parts when I wanted them, your assistance whenever I asked. But you insisted on being obstinate, having a ‘life’, and I took matters into my own hands,’ he paced dramatically, throwing out hurtful comment after hurtful comment, ‘I drew up an experiment that would give me back my advantage. By using your feelings for me, I would devise a ‘relationship’ wherein you were satisfied emotionally and socially simply by being with me. Thus I would have unlimited access to the lab and morgue, because you would want to spend all your time _with_ me.’

The tears she had been fighting all evening fell freely as she listened to him. But from the corner of her eye, she could see the narrowing of Mycroft’s eyes, the slight twitch of his hand on the handle of his brolly. Something about Sherlock’s confession didn’t sit right with him. And she didn’t have to be a Holmes’ brother to deduce that Sherlock was fibbing.

Even if he didn’t know it.

_‘…even Sherlock doesn’t know what he’s feeling.’_ Mary’s earlier words echoed in her mind as she watched Sherlock rant and rave. If he truly wanted unlimited access, he could have Mycroft pull some strings. They bickered like any genius-level siblings would, but they loved each other and Mycroft would do anything to help his younger brother.

This experiment may, _may,_ have started out as simply that, an experiment to get unlimited access. But perhaps it uncovered the feelings that Mycroft claimed Sherlock had buried… feelings for her. And his unbecoming behavior was simply his logical mind reacting to the rush of emotion.

The flare of hope Mycroft had ignited glowed brightly, like warm embers in her hardened heart.

‘…I assumed you would be reasonable, but you insisted on dating that American. I had no choice, but-’

‘No,’ Molly said, interrupting his tirade. Sherlock froze mid-pace and looked at her in confusion.

‘No?’ he parroted. Molly shook her head slowly, her cheeks wet with tears.

‘No, Justin and I never dated.’

Sherlock wrinkled his brow, ‘No, you did. You went on several dates, at least four.’

‘Nope,’ she smirked slightly, ‘he’s just a dear friend.’

‘Then where-‘

‘I went out with a group of friends, Sherlock. People who make me feel good about myself, for the sake of making me feel good about myself. No ulterior motives, no selfish reasons.’ She smiled sadly at him, ‘That’s something I haven’t had in a long time.’

He frowned, ‘I dislike making incorrect deductions.’ He began pacing once more as he mumbled, ‘Perhaps John has initiated some juvenile prank involving drugs in my coffee in order to slow down my mental faculties. No, no that can’t be it. I have solved every crime in the past month with record speed and perfect deduction.’

‘Or perhaps,’ Mycroft interject, standing to his feet, ‘you are feeling the rush of a powerful drug produced by your own transport, one that your logical mind has been fighting.’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother and mockingly questioned, ‘And what drug would that be?’

Mycroft tilted his head at Molly, silently handing the conversation over to her.

‘Love,’ she whispered in disbelief. Sherlock immediately froze.

She stood and slowly moved in front of the frozen detective until she was scant centimeters from him. He blinked in surprise and a hint of fear. She could feel his body heat, so close to her. She looked down at his hand and gently slid her fingers along his wrist until they stopped at his pulse point.

She swallowed thickly, her mind struggling to register the erratic pulse under her fingertips. The warm embers of hope gave life to a flickering flame. She slowly raised her head to look up at the still unmoving detective.

He opened his mouth to speak several times, but the words would not come.

With what little courage she had left, Molly raised her other hand and gently cupped his cheek. Her eyes begged him to admit what she _hoped_ was true.

‘I love you,’ she whispered, hoping desperately that he would admit what Mary and Mycroft and even Molly herself suspected; that he loved her in return.

Slowly, Molly raised herself onto her toes, her lips ghosting across his. With one last questioning gaze, she pressed her trembling lips to his cold ones.

She closed her eyes tightly, praying that he’d respond. Tears pooled in her eyes as he remained steadfastly aloof.

Just as she was about to pull away, his other hand reached up and gripped her wrist. She felt him taking her pulse, knowing it was just as erratic as his. She broke away, her face still close to his. Before she could say anything, he let go of her hand and wrapped his hand around her neck, pulling her back into a kiss. This time, he was more than a willing participant, his lips massaging hers, nibbling until she gasped. He deepened the kiss, coaxing a moan from her as his arms wrapped her tightly to his body, her own arms winding around his neck.

Everything within her clicked into place, the joy and absolute _rightness_ of it.

‘I believe it is time I take my leave,’ Mycroft interrupted. The two broke apart, gasping. Molly flushed red, from breathlessness and embarrassment.

‘Indeed, I believe Doctor Hooper and I have much to… _discuss,_ ’ Sherlock stared down intently at Molly, his chromatic eyes making her weak in the knees.

Mycroft stood, ‘Perhaps in some cases, sentiment in not a detriment, brother mine. Wouldn’t you agree?’ With a smirk, he made his way out the door and down the stairs.

Sherlock tightened his arms around his pathologist. ‘Perhaps. In _some_ cases.’

‘Oh, do give Anthea my best,’ Sherlock called after his brother with a smirk. He then turned his heated gaze once more to the pathologist in his embrace, ‘Now, where were we?’

Molly quickly placed a hand over his descending lips and leaned back. ‘Discussing your abominable behavior and how you can make it up to me.’

‘I think my admitting my feelings goes a long way toward that end,’ Sherlock countered.

Molly pinched her lips together and narrowed her eyes, ‘But you haven’t _actually_ admitted it.’

‘It was inferred,’ he pouted.

‘Sherlock.’

‘Fine, I love you. You love me. We’ve mastered the first major relationship hurdle: admission, now let’s celebrate,’ he pulled her up against his body, fully intent on resuming the snogging session they had abandoned earlier.

Molly tried to fight the pull of his smoldering gaze, but her knees were weak and so was her resolve. His kisses trailed across her chin and down her neck, a delicious shiver running up her spine.

‘You’re not forgiven for the ‘experiment’ yet,’ she murmured, effectively halting his attentions. He pulled back. His eyes wide and worried, he gulped.

‘What… what can I do to make it up to you?’

Molly turned her face down, trying to appear thoughtful. Slowly, a fiendish smile graced her features, a wicked gleam appearing in her brown eyes.

Sherlock felt his heart beat triple-time as she looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

‘Oh, I’ve got some ideas,’ Molly purred, removing herself from his arms and tugging him toward the bedroom. It took three seconds for Sherlock to spring into action. He pulled her back, spinning her into his embrace. He grinned wickedly at her surprised face before crouching down and effectively flinging her over his shoulder.

‘Sherlock!’ She shrieked, dissolving into giggles as he marched into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. ‘What are you doing?’

He tossed her onto the bed, smirking as he raked his gaze over her body. He covered her body with his, kissing her passionately.

‘I believe, my dear, it is called ‘having my way with you.’’


	9. A Christmas Story

The final strains of  _God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman_ were drawn out with a flourish, the violin bow pulling the last haunting note across the strings. A smattering of applause followed the fading note.

'Oh, that was wonderful, Sherlock,' Mrs. Hudson gushed, her cheeks already rosy with holiday spirits (and perhaps a couple early glasses of wine). Sherlock bowed curtly and set his violin aside as John clapped him on the back and handed him a glass of, what appeared to be, scotch on the rocks.

'Cheers, Sherlock,' John grinned. Sherlock nodded his thanks and sipped the bitter drink quietly. He let his gaze move across the room, taking in the people as they returned to their previous conversations.

Lestrade was involved in a flirtatious conversation with some woman he had invited from the fraud division of NSY, her body language clearly indicating a sexual interest in the older man. Sherlock smirked at Lestrade's ignorance to her interest; the Detective Inspector was clearly trying too hard to make a good impression, too hard for a fourth date, at least.

Molly's friend, Justin, had already come and gone, his arm around a young woman from his office. Sherlock immediately deduced a mutual interest. As annoying as Justin's presence had been to him, he begrudgingly admitted the man was the catalyst for the positive change in his and Molly's relationship. He managed to bid the man a short 'Merry Christmas,' earning a kiss from Molly as reward.

Mycroft sat in Sherlock's leather chair, his brow raised in annoyance, as Anthea, sitting on the couch, giggled over photo books of his and Sherlock's childhood. Mummy and Father flanked her on either side, pointing out specific pictures and adding wholly unnecessary anecdotes about their childhood. Mycroft's left hand bore an impressive red mark from Mummy's hand when he had endeavored to forcefully retrieve the picture album and toss it into the fire.

Mary and Mrs. Hudson were cooing over the latest addition to their circle in the kitchen. At five months, Charlotte Watson was an interesting specimen, in Sherlock's opinion. Unbeknownst to her parents, Sherlock had taken to keeping a secret journal recording the child's growth, both physically and intellectually. He grinned at the thought of sneaking her into a crime scene when she was older.

John stood beside him for a minute, his chest puffed out with pride as he watched his family, before he moved to join his wife and coax his daughter from Mary's embrace back into his arms.

Outside the cold wind blew flakes of bright snow in swirls, making the fire inside seem all the more inviting. A small Christmas tree decorated the corner of the flat, bags of presents surrounding its base, the mantelpiece covered with Christmas cards and greenery. The rest of the flat was no exception from the holiday décor, and was completely covered in fairy lights and faux greenery, courtesy of 221B's newest tenant.

Speaking of whom.

Leaving the lounge area, he sidestepped the Watson party and entered his bedroom.

_Our bedroom._ He corrected himself. As of three days ago, Molly was now a permanent resident of 221B Baker Street.

He silently shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Standing at the foot of the bed, Molly was finishing up wrapping the presents.

'I shouldn't have waited until the last minute,' she said, not even having to look up to know Sherlock was standing there. He chuckled and pushed away from the door.

She sighed as she finished tying the bow on a small, green-wrapped box. 'There. Finished.'

Sherlock moved to stand behind her and wrapped his arms around her middle. She leaned back into his embrace and let him nuzzle his face into the curve of her neck.

'Missed me already, love?' She reached a hand to caress his curls, turning her head to give him a gentle kiss. He pouted and loosed his arms enough for her to turn into his embrace.

'Molly Hooper, you invited too many people,' he groused. 'Mary, John and the baby would have been  _tolerable_ , but Mycroft? And Lestrade? Not to mention Mummy insisted on bringing those God-awful photo albums,' he huffed in annoyance. 'Come back outside, it is intolerable to be out there without you.'

Molly smiled indulgently at her petulant Consulting Detective, 'I've been in here for less than ten minutes, Sherlock. And you were playing your violin for five of those.'

'Nevertheless,' he raised an eyebrow, 'I will not go out there again without you as a buffer.'

'A buffer? Is that what I am to you?' Molly giggled and shook her head in fond exasperation. 'We can go out in a minute. There's something I want you to do first.'

He smirked. 'I'm afraid I can't do  _that_ in a minute, my dear,' he growled in her ear.

Molly slapped his arm, gasping with mock incredulity. 'Get your mind out of the bedroom, Sherlock Holmes.'

'But my transport is in the bedroom, thus my mind is in the bedroom,' he retorted. Molly rolled her eyes and stopped herself from replying to his sarcastic logic.

She ducked out of his arms and approached the full-length mirror, adjusting the elbow-length sleeves of her flowing green dress and smoothing out the wrinkles. A pouting Sherlock encircled her in his arms once more, leaning his chin on her shoulder. She smiled at him in the mirror.

'What is it you wanted me to do?' He mumbled into her hair.

Molly giggled and tilted her head back. He followed her gaze and smirked at the small bundle of mistletoe she'd managed to tack to the ceiling. 'Ah, yes. The holiday tradition of expending unnecessary affection under ridiculously sentimental circumstances brought upon by a rather ridiculous idea that mistletoe is a romantic greenery.'

She rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh, 'If that's what you think…' she made to break his hold on her, but he held fast, pressing her back firmly against his chest.

'I suppose I could expend a small portion of affection. It is Christmas, after all.'

With a gentle kiss to her temple, he closed his eyes. Molly's love for him had kept him alive more times than she knew. And if loving her was all she needed in return… well, who was he to deny her that reward? She hummed happily and snuggled herself further into his embrace.

_No sense waiting any longer._

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the piece of paper that had been folded neatly and tucked away for such an occasion as this. With his other arm firmly anchoring his Molly to his chest, he held the paper in front of her. She blinked at it, then lifted her gaze in question, staring at him in the mirror.

'Thank you for my present, Molly,' he nudged her to take the paper, his heart pounding, drowning out the sounds of the party in the next room.

'What?' She asked in confusion, her gaze darting to the reflection of the bag of gifts. Sherlock didn't care which one of those was his (although he knew it was the one wrapped carefully in gold foil with a silver bow, containing a note saying his new microscope was in Mrs Hudson's flat. Honestly, did she still believe she could hide anything from him?). It mattered little in the face of this present. Something she never could have bought him.

Hesitantly, Molly took the plain, white paper and unfolded it, a curious frown on her face.

He swallowed thickly as he watched in the mirror, her eyes darting across the page. In his mind, he recalled with perfect clarity every word written on the page. The two brief sentences that defined the gift were burned into his mind.

_Blood Analysis_

_Human Chorionic Gonadotropin:_ _127 mIU_

He knew the moment Molly made the connection, her entire body stiffening as she inhaled sharply. Her eyes widened to almost comical proportions and her face paled. _hCG._ The pregnancy hormone. The paper trembled in her hands as she slowly raised her eyes to meet Sherlock's reflection. He tightened his hold on her, placing a gentle hand on her abdomen, silently telling her of his happiness.

'Oh,' she whispered in shock. 'How…?'

Sherlock understood her unspoken question, 'At first, you showed no signs, save for a slight increase in appetite.'

'I've been eating the same amount,' Molly mumbled and frowned as she thought back to the past few weeks.

'I wasn't referring to food, Molly,' Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. The blood rushed back to Molly's face as Sherlock smirked proudly.

'But it wasn't until your usually unending patience disappeared and you became somewhat… tetchy… that I suspected anything,' he placed a kiss on her temple as she frowned at his deduction. 'So I swiped some of your blood from when you cut your hand on the broken flask last week in the lab. I ran an analysis and here we are.'

'Here we are, indeed,' she mumbled, placing her trembling hand atop Sherlock's, her eyes wide with the new wonder of a life inside her. They stood together for several minutes, ignoring the raucous laughter from the other room, simply absorbing the news.

'You're okay with this?' Molly finally broke the silence, hesitance and worry plain on her face.

'Of course,' Sherlock said indignantly. 'You will be a marvelous mother and I will be the one he or she comes to when you are the disciplinarian.'

She burst out into laughter, causing Sherlock to smile in response, as the shock wore off and she began to wrap her mind around their new reality.

The noises from outside reminded them that they were not alone in their flat and that their guests needed to be tended to.

'So,' Molly swiped away the tear that fell, unaware that she had even begun crying, and breathed a laugh, 'if this is my gift to you, what can you possibly give me that can even compete?'

'Oh, but my gift to you is on that page, as well,' he replied vaguely, stepping away from her. Molly sniffed, then frowned down at the paper in confusion.

Sherlock left the room and stepped into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. With relief, he noticed that their guests were chatting comfortably, unaware of their hosts brief absence.

He had gone no more than three steps than a muffled shriek reached his ears. He fought against the desire to grin, even as his heart skipped a beat. Everyone's head snapped up as the bedroom door was flung open and a wide-eyed, crying pathologist entered the room, the paper crumpled in her hand. Sherlock placed his hands in his pockets, trying to appear nonchalant, and raised his eyebrows as he turned around.

Molly stared at him, silence falling around them as their guests looked on at the unexpected spectacle. Her mouth opened and closed several times, but no words came out. Finally, the silence was broken by a gurgling Charlotte Watson, intent on drawing the attention back to herself.

It was enough to break Molly from her shock. She swallowed thickly and breathed deep, searching for something in Sherlock's expression. Whatever he was showing behind his normal, stoic mask must have been what she was searching for.

With a disbelieving smile, she gently laughed, 'Yes.'

Sherlock almost visible sagged in relief and exhaled deeply, unaware he'd been holding his breath. He rushed back to her and swept her into his arms. From the corner of his eye, he saw the paper drop to the floor as she wrapped her arms around his neck, whispering 'I love yous' and 'Yes' into his ear over and over again.

He smiled, proud of the success of his little scheme.

She noticed it much sooner than he had expected, almost twenty seconds sooner, in fact.

The name on the blood analysis.

_Margaret Elizabeth Holmes._

Easily overlooked at first, and nearly overlooked entirely.

But worth it, for the feeling of her in his arms and the disbelieving joy on her face as she said 'yes.'

All too soon, he became aware of the others in the room, watching their mostly unspoken interaction, their confusion almost tangible. Sherlock released Molly, placing a tender kiss on her lips, his body shielding the rare public act of affection from prying eyes. He discreetly slipped the ring he'd pulled from his front pocket onto her finger, and was rewarded with a radiant smile from his newly minted fiancé.

'Would you like to tell them now?' He whispered, admiring the way the fairy light twinkled in the reflection of her familiar brown eyes.

Molly beamed up at him, happiness shining in her face. She giggled and reached up to fiddle with the curls at the nape of his neck. 'We could,' she bit her lip as she tried to hold back a wicked smile, 'But wouldn't you rather let them suffer in suspense?'

His eyes darkened at her husky tone and deviousness. Unfortunately, before he could respond, they were harshly reminded that they were currently the center of some very interested attention.

'Sherlock?' Mummy's voice broke over them. 'I do believe I raised you to be more considerate of others, especially when those others are guests in your home. Now, tell us what all this ruckus is about.'

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock straightened and turned around, pulling Molly to his side, temporarily hiding her left hand from view. Everyone was watching with identical expressions of confusion. Except Mycroft, who sat smugly in his chair, his gaze darting to the paper on the floor and then to the two of them. He smirked knowingly, grating on Sherlock's nerves.

He glanced down at Molly. She squeezed his arm encouragingly. Taking a deep breath, he turned to their audience.

* * *

The party had been coming to a close before Sherlock and Molly made their announcements. But suddenly, presents and nightcaps were forgotten, as the guests stood in gobsmacked silence before breaking into shouts of congratulations and guffaws of disbelief.

The women pulled Molly into a circle, insisting on seeing the ring and hearing a full explanation of how Sherlock had proposed.

Mummy Holmes was most insistent that he should ask Molly properly, and not, as she put it, 'like some clever idiot. You get down on your knee, young man.' But Molly laughed it off, treasuring the proposal as Sherlock's unique way of claiming her as his. The women hugged her in turn, excited about the expectation of another baby in their circle. Mummy Holmes seemed positively over the moon about becoming a grandmother. Molly sneaked a glance at Anthea and noticed a slight flush on the other woman's face. Living with a Consulting Detective had sharpened her powers of deduction, but it didn't take much effort to connect the glass of water in Anthea's hand and the blush on her face to the conclusion that soon there would be not one, but two Holmes grandchildren running about.

The two women shared a smile as the others chattered about, making plans and calling out baby names.

On the other side of the room, a grimacing Sherlock was nearly pounded into the floorboards by the men as they clapped him on the back, John even pulling him into a hug. Sherlock smirked as the army doctor whispered into his ear a threat about what he would do to the taller man if he didn't treat Molly right.

Molly looked over her shoulder at the group of men, catching Sherlock's eye. He smiled at her, clearly uncomfortable with the jibes and jokes aimed at him, but enduring it nonetheless. The women's voices around her faded as she placed a hand over her abdomen and smiled.

She thought back to where she had been one year before.

Hopelessly in love with a man who had not given her the time of day unless it suited his purpose. A man who, despite his claims to the contrary, had a good heart, but hid it behind sharp words and cruel deductions.

She had grown so much over the course of that year, making new friends, breaking out of her self-imposed, social exile, and winning over the love of her life.

_Would I wish for it to be different? For the pain I endured at his words to never have happened?_

If it meant missing out on this... no.

_Would I have settled for someone else than wait for Sherlock to open his eyes?_

Her fingers brushed across her still flat stomach.

No.

_Would I trade my happiness now to forget the pain of six years of unrequited love?_

The sparkle of the diamond on her ring finger caught her gaze.

She smiled.

_Definitely not._


End file.
